


Underneath the Veil

by Cayenne_Pepper32



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Coda, Confused Will Graham, Hannibal (TV) Season/Series 02, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Hannibal flashfic #007, M/M, Someone Help Will Graham, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Will Graham Knows, canonverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29762460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cayenne_Pepper32/pseuds/Cayenne_Pepper32
Summary: “Tell me, Will, how do you envision our future together?” Both the question and the reverence in Hannibal’s eyes make him take in a deep breath to ground himself. He takes a moment to consider all the possibilities of the future ahead of them.In the moments after burning Hannibal's notes, Will's deception hangs heavy in the air. Will and Hannibal are left to contemplate their future and the value of truth.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30
Collections: Hannibal flashfic 7





	Underneath the Veil

In the distance, Will vaguely registers the trickle of Hannibal topping off their respective glasses; the fire and the alcohol already working in tandem to create a warmth that suffocates him as much as the inevitability of what’s to come. Will allows himself an unguarded moment to close his eyes - the flames licking their way into the darkest parts of his brain, setting them alight as the clicking of the stag nearing makes a chill run through his body, and for a moment, he is taken back to a year ago in this exact same spot. His eyes blink open as Hannibal takes his place beside Will, leaning against his desk with effortless poise. His eyes slide over to Will then as he holds the crystal glass now refilled with more of an undoubtedly expensive whiskey, the glass sitting in the palm of his hand, his features flickering in the light of the fire both regal and sinister. Will is reminded of Hamlet cradling Yorick’s skull: the monologue a dull ringing in his own. 

Avoiding Hannibal’s gaze, he takes the glass from his open palm and catches Hannibal’s thoughtful stare despite all of his cautiousness. The fear that Hannibal knows of his betrayal settles into his bones again. Perhaps this time next week, Hannibal will be cradling his skull in that very palm - mulling over all of Will’s attempts at glory and righteousness despite knowing he’d always end up in his hands. 

Taking a long pull of his whiskey, Will concludes that right now they are both the fools in the performance they’re putting on for each other. He wants to call off the show, pull the curtains closed, and take them as far away from the stage as possible, leaving all their observers waiting for the final act. This is bound to end in bloodshed and Will recoils at the thought of anybody else seeing the monster under the person suit fade out of existence, displaying Hannibal’s end to those who never truly knew him - no, that was for his eyes only. As he glances down he sees Hannibal bleeding out at his feet, a gentle hand gripping his ankle and amber eyes looking up at him, seeping with unfiltered joy. 

“A penny for your thoughts, Will?” Hannibal’s voice is low and probing, calling Will away from the fire. Hannibal always had this way of making all his questions polite commands and Will can’t help but wonder how much that has gotten a man like Hannibal in life. He can fool himself and insist that he is immune, but he knows better when he meets Hannibal’s eyes, shining with mirth; his lips pulled in a private smile. Will likes to think that Hannibal’s smile is reserved just for him. The mere thought causing a warm coil of success to unfurl in his ribcage. Will’s eyes flick up, momentarily seeing all the papers cascading around him again, his past with Hannibal being tossed into the very fire they sit in front of. 

Will decides to give Hannibal a half-truth. His eyes fixate on his chin, refusing to indulge Hannibal by staring into his eyes.

“You,” he pauses as Hannibal blinks away his surprise at Will’s moment of candor, “all that is behind us and all that is to come.” He watches Hannibal’s throat bob as he sips his wine and ignores how his chest clinches.

“Tell me, Will, how do you envision our future together?” 

Both the question and the reverence in Hannibal’s eyes make him take in a deep breath to ground himself. He takes a moment to consider all the possibilities of the future ahead of them. The future in which Jack is successful, the fight brutal and self-righteous, and the future that ends with Jack on their dinner plates. All of the variations flicking in front of him, all of them with a common denominator: violence. 

His eyes meet Hannibals in a weak moment, Will desperate to _see_ the man standing in front of him, searching for something he has yet to find.

“I see bloodshed, Hannibal, do you see the possibility for anything else?” 

Will’s response is biting, Hannibal’s lips twitching and head tilting in consideration. Will briefly allows himself to wonder what meals Hannibal would make out of him, what art he would make from his body to pay for his brashness. Hannibal looks away from Will to stare directly into the fire, the light flickering on his face, and Will’s gaze lingers on his features, attempting to commit them to memory. He feels the burn of guilt in his chest with the realization that this may be the last night by Hannibal’s fireplace before all Hannibal has is his memory palace.

“Patroclus donned Achilles’s armor to fight, leaning into his brutality and in his death, Achilles’ grief fuelled him, his mission becoming one of vengeance; however, his death toll didn’t relieve the ache, didn’t satisfy his need for revenge.” Hannibal pauses, clenching his jaw as he takes a deep breath. “Patroclus’s true identity was revealed in the midst of battle, but they were one in the same. Achilles died in his fight for Patroclus and they were entwined even in death.” 

Hannibal’s eyes bore into him, “Not all violence is bred from evil Will, it can also be an act of love.” 

Will can’t control his sharp intake of breath, his head dizzy with the implication. For once Hannibal’s eyes are so open and he almost looks pleading in his earnestness. The need to escape his closeness to Hannibal unfreezes his limbs as he begins to roam the perimeter of the office to clear his head. Despite his futile attempt at distance, Hannibal’s eyes linger on him, gaze hot and intrusive, as his words echo in Will’s head. Will’s entire body feels boiling as Hannibal watches him like this, a predator watching his prey, both lost in their primal instincts. Will drags his fingers across the spines of books as he passes them until his hand snatches on one and he decides to idly thumb it open as a distraction, feigning an unbothered demeanor. 

His eyes skim the pages of what appears to be a book on sculptures - seemingly one of Hannibal’s favorites if the worn pages are anything to go by - until one particular page catches his eye. A sculpture of a woman who appears to be in the middle of action, one foot bearing all of her weight, eyes turned away in a far-off expression, a garland of flowers resting in her hands. She is cloaked head to toe in a veil that looks as if it weighs her down. Will runs his finger over the picture of the sculpture, aching to touch it. Hannibal’s smell alerts Will of his presence behind him as he remains a silent observer at Wills’s back. He smells comforting - hints of leather, citrus, and cinnamon from his cologne and the smell of fire clinging to his suit. 

He inches forward, footsteps falling heavier to let Will know he’s there, to give him ample time to move, but Will stays firmly planted. He can feel Hannibal’s warm breath on the back of his neck, his own fighting to stay steady as his heart rate begins hammering. Being close to Hannibal always feels like a rush - the moment between life and death, like staring God in the face and taunting him. Will feels more than hears the hum next to his ear as Hannibal spots the sculpture that has been given Will’s unwavering attention. 

Hannibal leans in closer, his fine hair tickling Will’s cheek, dangerously close to hooking his chin on his shoulder, a terrifying shadow of an embrace. Hannibal could kill him right now, could have already sniffed out his deceit, and simply end it now. This time tomorrow he could be completely off of the grid, one of the most prolific serial killers slipping right through the FBI’s fingers, a failure for the world to see. Once again Will wonders how Hannibal would do it- would it be quick, bloody, and banal or would it be slow and personal, fingers wound tightly around his throat and words laced with hurt filling his last conscious moments. He is horrified to find he prefers the latter, hopes Hannibal takes his time and makes him special. That he makes Will his most important display before reinventing himself elsewhere. How fitting for him to be the last victim of the Chesapeake Ripper. 

This close Will hears the click of Hannibal’s throat before he speaks.

“Ah, _Modesty_ sculpted by Antonio Corradini to be placed in Naples Cappella Sansevero during Raimondo di Sangro’s reconstruction,” Hannibal whispers, and Will can feel the rumble of his words down to his toes. Hannibal tilts his head to the left and Will can feel his lips mere centimeters away from his ear and despite his distance from the fire and whiskey forgotten, he feels like he’s suffocating all over again. “Do you know what else they call this sculpture, Will?”

He realizes that now is his turn to speak, to continue their dance of pretentious metaphors to pick apart and try to parse out the real meaning; however, he finds the words lumped in his throat, tacky in their lack of cohesiveness. He gives a small jerky shake of his head, careful to keep the little remaining distance left between them. Hannibal’s sigh hits his cheek and makes its way down his neck in a blotchy flush. Hannibal’s fingers make their way to Will’s elbow, ghosting down his arm so feather-lite Will wonders if he’s imagining them. He refuses to take his eyes off of the book and acknowledge the motion until Hannibal’s fingers land on top of Will’s, tracing over them and the sculpture in question.

“The sculpture is a memorial for Di Sangro’s young mother who died when he was only an infant. It speaks of a life cut too short and the pain of the son left behind, but it also speaks of wisdom. A part of the plaque behind her is said to read ‘I am past, present, and future.’ Tradition suggests that the statue stands where a statue of Isis used to stand. Isis was often depicted as veiled signifying inaccessibility to the truth. For this reason, _Modesty_ is also referred to as _Veiled Truth_.” Hannibal inhales deeply, shifting minutely forward, chest coming in contact with Will’s back. “Are we removing the veil together, Will?” 

Will’s entire body freezes at the question, blood running cold as he is once again faced with the reality that Hannibal may know, that he has seen through his orchestrated act and is testing him. The possibility that Hannibal knows and is keeping him alive rattles him more than he anticipated. Will is forced to think of Achilles and Patroclus once again - revenge leading to nothing but bloodshed and pain, tearing the world apart in the name of love. His inhale is shaky as he allows himself to consider that love is the only reason he is alive. The feeling curdles like spoiled milk in the pit of his stomach, unanswered questions and truths bitter on his tongue threatening to spill. Will is simultaneously mortified and euphoric at the revelation, every cell in his body hypervigilant and buzzing in attention. Hannibal’s head moves lower and he knows Hannibal can hear his swallow, can see his pulse racing in his neck, and his fingers twitching on the paper in the long moment before he answers.

“I will find great pleasure in pulling the veil from Jack’s eyes,” he grits out through clenched teeth, the words coming out slow and careful as he attempts to hold his truths behind his teeth. He can’t help but tilt his head back into Hannibal when he feels his smirk on his neck, wondering when he flung himself into Hannibal’s gravitational pull.

“I have taken great pleasure in removing the veil between us Will.” Hannibal’s other arm begins to curl around his hip, the fingers that are still placed gingerly on top of Will’s hand forcing themselves in between his fingers. “It has been most rewarding to see each other authentically. Modesty is forgone, all of ourselves bare for the other to see.” His traveling hand finally finds its resting place below Will’s navel and if Will didn’t know any better he’d say Hannibal’s finger tracing a line on his abdomen was absentminded. All thought comes to a screeching halt when he feels Hannibal nose at his neck with a deep inhale. 

“Smelling me again, Dr. Lecter?” Will’s question sounds weak even to him and he clears his throat in a futile attempt to regain his composure. He’s becoming desperate for an upper hand, itching to crack Hannibal's stoicism, to rip into his calm exterior and corrupt what makes him tick. A self-satisfied smirk sears into Will’s flesh as Hannibal puffs out a light chuckle and that makes Will whip his head around to face him. He can deal with being a willing pawn in Hannibal’s games but he draws the line at being laughed at. 

“Hard to avoid,” he echoes his words from a previous conversation and Will’s fingers tighten on the book, knuckles turning white with the effort. 

Will’s glare falls from his face as soon as he makes eye contact. In his anger, he had failed to consider the consequences of meeting Hannibal’s eyes, how he would be allowing Hannibal to look into his own and through his skull. He foolishly wonders if Hannibal can hear his thoughts - if he’s capable of picking his brain apart by sheer proximity. He definitely failed to consider how Hannibal’s lips would be one small movement from his. 

Perhaps he also overestimated his own self-control.

“I forwent the aftershave this time,” he murmurs uselessly as he knows Hannibal is hardly listening. 

Hannibal’s gaze lingers on WIll’s lips as he speaks and he’s so close Will’s eyes are beginning to cross trying to look at him. Will caves, his eyes fluttering shut, and with the newfound darkness, he can feel the Stagman’s antlers brushing his own, not in challenge, but in surrender. It is only in this moment he knows how deep he has gotten himself, just how much he and Hannibal have begun to blur. 

He can feel the pain of the ending already and he accepts the ineffability of going down with him. He can smell the wine on his breath as Hannibal shifts minutely closer, Wills grip on the book the only thing keeping him grounded. 

“Your sacrifice is greatly appreciated,” Hannibal is so close that Will can feel his lips moving against his, breathing in his whisper, the words and their meaning filling up his lungs and giving a jolt to his stilled heart. 

Against his better judgment, anticipation thrums through his entire being and he thinks of his promise to be Jack’s man in the room, how far he’s fallen from loyalty. Will’s a good fisherman, but he failed to consider how the lure gets swallowed by the fish moments before capture. 

Hannibal backs away just enough to make Will open his eyes again and they flit around as if searching for something, his face soft in the dim light, eyes nervewracking in their intensity. Will doesn’t cower away from the eye contact, letting Hannibal see him back and take what he wants. Hannibal’s lip twitches and he must find what he’s looking for because as quickly as the embrace started, he ends it. Will wobbles a little at the lost contact, his eyes still fixated at the spot where Hannibal stood. Face blank and eyes guarded, Hannibal looks Will up and down one last time before making his way back to the wine at his desk. Will is left cold in the middle of the room, hands lightly shaking as he places the book back in its rightful place. 

As he glances over his shoulder, he finds Hannibal already staring at him, noting now how devilish he looks as the red hues of the fire wash over him. Will was never a religious man but for a moment his Southern roots prod at him: his father’s gruff voice warning him about temptation a faraway echo.


End file.
